


If You're My Guide

by mwildsides



Category: Captain America
Genre: M/M, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 21:08:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwildsides/pseuds/mwildsides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky wakes from a nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You're My Guide

**Author's Note:**

> title from Eisley's "Better Love"

It’s Bucky’s quick, calculated movements that always wake Steve, and when they do he immediately knows what’s going on. He knows his friend-- _friend, everything, partner, it’s more complicated than all of that--_ is going for the gun he keeps under his pillow. It happens fast, and Steve wakes up just as quick to turn on the bedside lamp and check the time. _3:16_ , and Bucky is half out of bed, his Desert Eagle poised toward the doorway of their bedroom. 

When he wakes up from nightmares-- _just dreams--_ like this his eyes tell Steve just how far-off he is. They’re cold, hard like gemstones, pointedly looking at something that isn’t and was never there. In those moments they aren’t Bucky’s eyes, because in those moments he isn’t Bucky, isn’t James Buchanan Barnes, he’s the Winter Soldier. 

Steve sits up, slow, always slow and reaches out to Bucky’s flesh-and-blood arm, extended with the other straight out in front of him to aim his gun. His fingers touch, light and brief so as not to alarm Bucky, that never ends well. Calling his name and shaking him out of it is never enough, and it’s too much, sends him into a sort of panic once he’s out of it. Steve almost rues the fact that he’s so well versed in this, but as long as Bucky struggles with this, he’s going to be there to wake him up. 

“Bucky,” He whispers, fingers flattening against his friend’s shoulder softly. The skin there is damp with a cold sweat, like the rest of him is. As he gets to his knees, the blond keeps his hand there, light and simple and undemanding, “Hey,” He adds, fingers smoothing slightly, down to his bicep until his palm cups the curve of the muscle. It’s harder than it used to be, more toned from the years and _years_ of training he did when they were apart. 

Gradually Steve gets to his knees, a bit behind Bucky, and to his right like they sleep. When he’s nearer, his chest nearly touching his friend’s shoulder, Steve slides his hand down Bucky’s arm, the right so he can feel it, to his right hand where it clutches the gun. His fingers ghost over the brunette’s scar-roughened knuckles, till they feel the cool metal of his other fingers, then the handle of the gun. 

“Bucky it’s Steve,” He murmurs as he leans close so he speaks right over Bucky’s shoulder, and into his ear, “It’s me.” It’s whispered, like that is the only way Bucky can hear, and sometimes it is. Steve watches his friend’s eyes carefully, waiting for him to blink, because when he gets like this, during these waking dreams, he doesn’t blink. It makes this whole thing a little more terrifying, even if there aren’t bullets in the gun; Steve removed them long ago, because even if there was an intruder, between the two of them they would be able to take care of it without a firearm. 

“Bucky come on.” He murmurs again, his hand wrapping firmly around Bucky’s where he holds the gun, and those long, brown eyelashes flutter. Steve sighs with relief, pulling the weapon from his friend’s hands, tossing it to the sheets around their feet. All too quickly Bucky’s shoulders slump, his back loses it’s rigidity, and he lets out a harsh sigh, ragged and relieved. He swallows and licks his dry lips, hands falling slack in his lap as he takes a few deep breaths. 

“Steve...” Bucky breaths, his eyes different now--all of him is different now but at least his eyes aren’t stoney--and stares at the rumpled sheets. Steve puts his hands on him freely now, guiding his friend down to the bed, so they sit back to chest, one of Steve’s arms slung over Bucky’s left shoulder to keep him there. 

“It’s alright...” The blond says quietly, settling his chin on his friend’s right shoulder. Bucky’s warm hand comes up to grip one of Steve’s that hangs over his chest, pulling it a little and gripping tight. Contact, for him, seems most grounding at first, and it makes sense to Steve. Bucky needs to know where he is, first, who he’s with, why he’s there. That Steve is here with him, he isn’t alone. It’s not the fact that they’re in a relationship, it’s not the fact that they kiss and share an apartment, it’s the fact that he _isn’t_ the Winter Soldier anymore, his life is his own now, and this isn’t how he has to live it. 

“Sorry...” He pants, turning his head to look at Steve out of the corner of his eye. The blond squeezes Bucky, presses his face to the side of his friend’s neck. 

“Don’t be, it’s alright,” He answers quietly, his hand drifting up Bucky’s forearm soothingly. They’re quiet for a spell, Bucky’s labored breathing the only sound in the room. He gets so keyed up during these spells, and all of it terrifies Steve, even if he knows it’s fleeting. Bucky shakes his head, tipping it back a little till it rests against his friend’s temple. 

“Was Istanbul this time,” He pants, breath warm and stale against Steve’s cheek, and closes his eyes. He’ll tell Steve a few things about the dream now, usually always does because it helps. He leaves out the messy details, “I was...someone was...they were following me.” Sometimes it’s a memory he relives, sometimes it’s that, and anything else his mind wants to conjure up. Those are worse. Now, anyway, the memories used to be the bad thing. 

They didn’t manifest in dreams, they simply came when Bucky was awake, laying in bed in the dead of night as he listened to Steve breathing deeply next to him, and it should have been calming, but it never was. Steve’s presence alone felt like it _should_ have been enough, but there was just....it just wasn’t...something was _missing,_ and if Bucky hadn’t feel broken already, that had done it. Steve had done his best, since Bucky returned, to try and make everything...better, or okay...or just _something,_ but there were still chambers in his heart, the far off corners of his mind that were still frozen solid by the longest winter of his life. 

The waking terrors had gone quickly, however. Steve was there to shake him out of these strange day dreams, and with the Avengers, gave him something to do, keep his mind occupied. That was why at night, the floodgates opened, and he was vulnerable to all the memories and conjured-up scenes that had him shooting up in bed like this as he grasped for the gun under his pillow. 

“Do you want to go back to sleep?” Steve asks quietly, against Bucky’s ear, breath tickling him a little. The brunette sighs, relaxes in his friend’s-- _lover’s--_ arms, and fixes his eyes on the window. Outside, Manhattan glitters, still alive at three AM. It’s comforting to know that there are thousands of other people awake, in some way. Bucky reaches up to take Steve’s hand that’s slung over his shoulder, and just holds it for a few moments in his cybernetic hand. 

“Maybe-...maybe, not right now...” He sighs, closing his eyes again. He really is exhausted, tired down to his bones, but between working with the Avengers, and these nightmares, he’s used to it. 

“Alright. I’ll be right back.” Steve murmurs, presses a kiss to the side of Bucky’s neck, and slowly begins to untangle himself from his friend. Everything in Bucky wants to cling to Steve, to the strange sense of security he gets from his friend’s presence. It’s not that...it’s not that Steve doesn’t help, there are just some things that no one will be able solve, not even Bucky, and they both know that. Sometimes he feels guilty for plaguing Steve with all of this crap, but in times like these, waking up to his voice, he knows this is where he’s supposed to be. 

Laying back on the cold sheets feels good on his heated skin, but he knows he won’t fall back asleep for a few more hours. Theres few things he hates more than not being able to go back to sleep in the middle of the night but...that’s also why Steve is there. Unless he hasn’t slept in a few days, Steve usually stays up with Bucky; sometimes they talk, make love, watch TV, or nothing, and just stare around the room, listening to one another breath. Those hours aren’t bad actually, they’re special in an odd way. 

A few minutes later, Steve returns with a glass of water, taking a sip as he sleepily drags over to the bed once more. Bucky watches as usual, admiring, because god, even if he’s miserable, nothing beats being able to look at Steve. 

“Here,” The blond says, holding the glass out to Bucky as he crawls onto the bed next to his friend. Bucky swallows down about half of whats left in the glass, thankful that the water is ice cold. Sighing, he sets the glass on the nightstand, and rolls over so he’s closer to Steve, laying on his stomach as the blond shifts closer. They always spend a while getting comfortable, whether Bucky fits himself up against Steve’s side, or vice versa, it always feels best if they’re touching. Steve stretches out on his side beside Bucky, tucking one arm up against his chest as he extends the other to his friend’s shoulder, fingers glancing against the skin softly. 

What Steve starts to do next, is one of the single most relaxing things Bucky has ever experienced. His fingers begin to drift lightly over Bucky’s back, just the tips, tickling over the skin in nonsensical patterns that give him goosebumps everywhere. He wants to shut his eyes, to drift back to sleep, but he would prefer looking at Steve, and getting to feel his hands instead of sliding right back into the hell of his memories. So he just tucks his hands under the pillow he rests his head on, and looks at Steve through the dark. 

For a while they’re silent, the only sound in the room is their breathing, the soft sighs Bucky makes when Steve runs his fingers up into his hair firmly, and scratches them lightly over his scalp. That feels the best, but in close second place is the way he’ll run a finger down the side of Bucky’s ribs, then to his stomach and hip. Sometimes that even gets him _hard_ for all that it feels so good, just right there, but right now that’s not really a possibility. He still feels keyed up from the dream, but Steve’s touch makes him relax a little, gives him something else, something good to focus on. 

“Can I ask you something?” Steve asks suddenly, apropos of nothing, and soft. Bucky knows it’s something about this, about him and his dreams and what Steve can do, so he’s cautious, expression like that of a frightened kitten. 

“‘Course...” Bucky mumbles, face half squished into his pillow. Steve licks his lips, looks down, at Bucky’s back or maybe the hand that touches it, or nothing at all, before looking back up at the brunette again. He’s quiet for a while after that too. 

“Do you...are you um-do you feel safe with me?” Still, his voice is quiet, careful almost, and Bucky opens his eyes, frowning as he does. For a moment he searches for Steve’s face in the dark, then focuses on his eyes and the dim light from outside that they reflect. He thinks over the answer, and perhaps for Steve that is answer enough, but Bucky considers everything. 

“Of course I do,” He breathes, hoping his tired voice conveys some sense of sincerity, “Of _course_ I do Steve, why would you even ask me that?” The question didn’t anger him in the least, he just never understands why Steve is ever insecure about something in their relationship. Alright, maybe not insecure, but unsure. Bucky had thought everything would be clear to him by now. 

But the thing is, everything had stopped being clear to Steve the moment Bucky came back. At first, nothing was different; they were wildly in love and trusted one another, never left the other’s side, picked up their old rapport like nothing had changed, and that was the problem. With 70 years between you and the man you loved, the guy you grew up with, the kid who beat up other boys for you, theres not a lot that could make you want to act like anything was different. Steve knew Bucky’s mind had been wrecked, from being brainwashed and back, and the memories that haunted him wore him down on a daily basis. He acknowledged them, comforted his friend, and went on about his day. 

That had been his mistake, and months later Bucky pointed that out to him, after which Steve knew, he _knew_ it had been wrong all this time, that _he’d_ been wrong, treated this all wrong. And it killed him to know he hadn’t done right by his best friend, his whole damn _world_ if he was honest with himself. He’d never quite let go of the guilt that had plagued him in the days after Bucky had fallen from the train, and even here in this new century, so it was only exacerbated by the fact that he’d been living in the past, not the present where things were a little uglier. 

“Just wonder if it’s why you keep-...keep having dreams,” He murmurs, ashamed of his question and the latter. He’s just ashamed of the way he’s handled all of this. He’s even ashamed that he’s felt guilty and made some of those arguments about what _he_ had done wrong, instead of focusing on Bucky, and helping him through this. 

Bucky sighs, and buries his face in the pillow so he doesn’t have to look at Steve. This is one of the instances he thinks he should just leave, and Steve will be better off for it, not having to worry about any of this, or why Bucky has nightmares, why he can’t help. Heaving a sigh, Bucky turns over, his back to Steve, facing the windows, and the rest of the city. They’re high up in Stark Tower tonight, after a few missions this week, and they decided to stay. The view from here is nice, almost all of Manhattan laid out before them. 

“You know it’s not you Steve,” Bucky sighs, weary, and closes his eyes even though he probably won’t be sleeping tonight, “It has nothing-...there’s...nothing you can do. Nothing I can do, short of a lobotomy or something. Don’t think it’s your fault.” 

Steve hangs his head, shifting close to Bucky until they’re pressed together again, chest to back. That feeling that he’s being selfish is at him again, it always is, and he just doesn’t know what to do for his friend. He rests his forehead against the still-damp skin at the back of Bucky’s neck, winding an arm around the brunette’s waist, and the familiar weight of Bucky’s hand settles over his. 

“It was easier when we just got into trouble with people,” Steve says plainly, eyes open, though he doesn’t see anything but the faint shadows of Bucky’s back and shoulder, “You running your mouth and me...being me.” 

Bucky huffs a laugh, and smiles lazily. 

“Yeah, that’s the bad thing about nightmares, Steve. And a lot of other things I guess but,” He shrugs, opens his eyes again to look out the windows, “You can’t fight ‘em with your fists, or guns or a shield.” 

“‘t’s what I mean,” Steve replies as he runs his thumb across the side of Bucky’s wrist, “That way I could at least do something about it.” A slight frown rumples Bucky’s brow, and he turns his head a bit to glance over his shoulder at the blond. 

“You think I don’t feel the same?” He asks, not really angry but....he’s just so tired of all of this. Tired of having these conversations with Steve. 

“No, Bucky, I’m just - “ Steve heaves a sigh and shakes his head, “It kills me that there isn’t anything I can do. And I know it’s selfish of me to want to but I -....” He squeezes Bucky around the waist, and the blond pats his hand. 

“It’s not selfish, it’s just you being you,” Bucky says wearily, and settles his head against the pillow, “Can we talk about something else, or fuck or something.” They’re quiet for a little while, Steve just staring at the back of his friend’s head. 

“Um...sure...which...which one...” He mumbles, and Bucky turns over to look up at his friend. 

“I don’t know, Steve, I’m just tired of talking ourselves in circles about my crazy...” He laughs quietly again, humorlessly as he gazes at Steve. Their hands are still joined, both warm and decidedly made of flesh, until Bucky rests his bionic hand over Steve’s, just because he can. The blond thinks for a while. 

“Do you want to go watch TV? Or fix something to eat?” Outside of sex, those are usually the two things that can really distract Bucky. Smiling a little, the brunette sticks his bottom lip out. 

“You don’t want to fuck me?” He pouts, but he’s teasing. No matter how much he loves Steve, no matter how much he _constantly_ wants him, Bucky just isn’t up for it after that dream. 

“No I mean - of course - if you really want to we can?” Steve, ever the loving and utterly devoted man that he is, raises his eyebrows and smiles. 

“I’m joking. I’m not -...well...y’know.” He means to say he probably couldn’t get hard if he tried, but Steve gets it anyway. 

“Well I could use a sandwich.” The blond shrugs, and smiles while Bucky considers. 

“Yeah alright.” He concedes, even though he isn’t particularly hungry. They untangle and get up, making their way out to the kitchen. Bucky had been surprised that Stark-- _Tony--_ had given Steve his own floor, and that he got to stay there too. It’s a magnificent apartment, of sorts, with one bedroom, a huge kitchen and living area, and an office-slash-extra-bedroom. When he first came here, Bucky had stayed in the spare bedroom some nights, staring out the windows, wondering if the outside of the Tower was too smooth to climb. 

Now, he and Steve share the master bedroom. It too is huge, so is the bathroom, and both are littered with their things. Steve’s uniform, sometimes, and Bucky’s, the shirts the latter just can’t keep on, shoes, the shield, Bucky’s gun on the dresser, a set of dog tags in the bedside table. It’s a sanctuary sometimes, and others, like tonight, it’s almost oppressive. 

Steve fixes them both grilled cheese sandwiches as Bucky sprawls out on the couch and turns on the TV. There’s not much on this time of night, and he’s not one for television anyway; there’s some odd stuff on, mind numbing, stupid, vapid even, but that’s just the times, isn’t it. Theres occasionally the interesting show on space, or how stuff is made, and even some cooking shows, but even those get obnoxious. Bucky misses coming home in the evenings and listening to the radio as Steve drew, and he drank the rare bottle of beer. 

When Steve comes to sit by him, Bucky ignores his sandwich for a while and watches how asphalt is made with his head on his friend’s shoulder. It’s the kind of demure he needs, the warmth of Steve’s skin under his cheek, the dull buzz of the TV that he isn’t really paying attention to, and the smell of toast. He closes his eyes for a little while as Steve munches on his sandwich, and after a while of that, Bucky sits up to take his own grilled cheese in hand. Steve picks up the remote to switch through channels, and settles on some travel show. 

They don’t say anything to each other for a long time, finishing their sandwiches in silence, and then merely basking in it, listening to everything around them. Bucky sets his plate down on the coffee table again, brushing crumbs off of his fingers, and feels the weight next to him shift. Steve’s chin presses into Bucky’s shoulder, his lips on the brunette’s skin, and theres a warm hand trailing over his back, to his ribs, and Bucky closes his eyes. Steve’s hand trails down to Bucky’s waist, grips gently and coaxes him back until he’s resting against Steve’s chest again. It’s nice, the feel of his skin; it always is. 

For all that Bucky thinks he hates the future and it’s technology, it’s shitty movies and odd clothes, none of it matters. He doesn’t give a shit about any of it, or doesn’t mind, because he doesn’t really need all of it if he’s got Steve. That’s really all he’s ever wanted, needed, since he could remember really considering things like that. A roof over his head, okay, that was sort of up there, but if they didn’t have one, and Steve was there, Bucky wouldn’t mind all that much. 

Sighing, Bucky turns toward Steve slightly, and opens his eyes to look up at his friend for a few moments. He brings up a hand, brushes his knuckles over Steve’s chest. “If anything, Steve, you make this better,” he murmurs, staring at nothing in particular over the arm of the couch, “Like, what would I do when I woke up without you.” It’s not really a question, though he doesn’t say what would happen. He thinks he’d be terrified, because the thought of coming out of a dream like that without Steve is... a little horrifying. 

Steve is quiet for a little while longer, thinking, no doubt. “You’d come to,” he says, and Bucky laughs. 

_Maybe,_ he doesn’t say. “Yeah. It’s easier with you, is what I’m trying to say, you big dope,” he teases, smiling as he looks over and up at his friend. Of course, Steve’s got a soft smile on for him in return, “And thanks for the sandwich.” 

“Anytime,” Steve’s fingers brush lightly over Bucky’s side, “Bed?” And Bucky smiles a bit wider. 

“Bed,” he nods, and when they both stand, they turn out the lights, the TV, and head back into their bedroom, where, for the first time in a long time, Bucky goes back to sleep. 


End file.
